


Ghost Story

by pied_pollo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Case Fic, Demon Summoning, Gen, Murder, Ouija, Repressed Memories, Rituals, The Camping Trip, feels good to write a “basic” case fic again!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28484793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: Satanic delusions seem to be at play when a body turns up in a warehouse. Meanwhile, Malcolm starts to doubt his memories of the camping trip when one new recollection in particular doesn’t add up to what he thought had been solved.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

_There are hands over his, firmly and gently guiding his arms down until they extend straight out in front of him, all together pushing a blade to press against something—something moving, something_ alive _—but he knows that—and he has to keep it steady, easy does it, doing well—but the knife starts to shake when a pained whimper comes from the mass underneath—_

Malcolm shot upwards with a strangled scream, struggling for only a moment before the restraints around his wrists pulled taut and jerked him back against the headboard. Almost immediately, however, he slid them off with a practiced motion and hurried out of the bed, adrenaline still pumping, desperate to keep the dream fresh in his mind. 

_—his breath is in his throat—but he can feel someone’s smile behind him—don’t worry, just keep it still and push through—_

A morning that would normally be slow and routine was shifted into a series of frenzied actions as Malcolm grabbed his phone off the nightstand and paced around the loft as he dialed. The call rang once, then twice, three times…

_“You’ve reached the Northeast Animal—”_

“I need to speak to Sophie,” Malcolm interrupted breathlessly.

There was a rustle on the other end before the receiver replied, confused, _“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have a Sophie here. Would you like me to check with our sister facility?”_

“No,” Malcolm muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face, “I’m sorry, um—is Dr. Sarah there?”

 _“That she is,”_ the receptionist affirmed. _“Would you like to schedule an appointment with her?”_

“Actually, I was wondering if I could just inform her about the condition of my parakeet. I consulted her a little while ago.”

After some murmuring on the other end, the call seemed to be handed over, because suddenly, Sophie Sanders was speaking to him. _“Malcolm?”_

Before he could stop himself, Malcolm blurted out, “Did I try to kill you?”

_“...What?”_

“The camping trip,” Malcolm explained, his thoughts moving faster than his mouth could keep up with, “did I try to stab you? In the woods, with my father? He was guiding my hands, reassuring me. Was I being groomed to kill you?”

He could hear rapid footsteps and a door closing on the other line before Sophie whispered, _“Malcolm, I don’t want to think about this.”_

“I have to know,” Malcolm pleaded. “Please. It’s important.”

After a heavy pause, Sophie admitted, _“No. I don’t think I even went into the woods.”_ She took in a deep, shaky breath. _“I have to go.”_

“Sophie—”

The line went dead.

_—they’re moving together, but the smile behind leads to furrowed brows, stifling frustration—cold fear is flooding his veins—now’s not the time to be scared, come on, we’re almost there—_

Malcolm set the phone on the counter and balanced his forehead next to it, trembling hands curling into fists in his lap. That was not how he hoped the conversation would go, but was it a conversation that needed to be had at all? The dream was terrifying, yes, but was it just that—a dream?

With a shudder, Malcolm doubted it. If his other dream-turned-memories were anything to go by, the moment in the woods was something that happened. He just needed to figure out who it was underneath his knife.

There was only one person who would know the answer to that.

But first: back to the morning. Pills, bird, exercise, dress. Malcolm threw the sheets back on his bed without really tucking them in and started to turn on the television when his phone started ringing.

He knew who it was without bothering to check the Caller ID. “Murder?” Malcolm asked, a little too desperately.

 _“A group of teenagers called it in just a few hours ago,”_ Gil replied. _“Pretty gruesome stuff.”_

“Text me the address; I’ll be there in ten.”

══════════════════

Edrisa and her team were still working around the body when Malcolm arrived, but the rest of the team had arrived as well, gathering and talking together in the basement of a large, abandoned warehouse.

“You eat breakfast?” Gil asked over his shoulder.

Malcolm shrugged, giving an exaggerated grimace. “Sorry, it’s the crime scenes,” he joked. “Blood really turns my stomach.”

JT rolled his eyes, and Dani couldn’t suppress an amused smile as she said, “Edrisa estimated the time of death to be around midnight. What do you think?”

“I think,” Malcolm said carefully, crouching down with an awed expression, “this is incredibly interesting.”

 _Interesting_ was an understatement. Everyone had to sidestep in order to preserve the thick lines of red paint that spiraled and overlapped on the concrete floor, and as he circled the room, Malcolm came across an odd candle or bundle of leaves here and there. The large windows above their heads were all intact except for one, and if he looked carefully, Malcolm could guess that during midnight, the moon would be in sight there.

This visibility, the paint, the candles...Malcolm didn’t even observe half the room before imploring, “Is this a ritualistic sacrifice?”

“My first!” Edrisa replied enthusiastically, dusting off her pants before bouncing towards the group. “I think Bright’s magic or something. Isn’t it weird how, like—” She pointed to Malcolm. “—you come to the city, and all of the sudden, we’ve got all these crazy cases?”

“Crazy is kind of his thing,” JT pointed out.

Malcolm chewed the inside of his cheek. “It tends to be a pattern,” he admitted.

Gil cut back to the chase. “What makes you say it’s a sacrifice and not just stupid people?”

“Stupid people wouldn’t have this organization,” Malcolm explained, taking a step back to observe the room as a whole. “The pentagram on the ground was painted carefully, and all the materials needed to be bought, polished, and perfected. The detail here—” He pointed to the victim’s bloodied palm “He cut the inside of his palm for blood...and the rest of the blood has been cleaned away. Staging matters. But the kill itself is very disorganized.” Off the team’s confused looks, he asked Edrisa, “Do you know the cause of death?”

“I’ll have to do an autopsy to be sure,” she remarked, “but as of right now, it’s looking like trauma to the back of the head.”

“With a blunt object,” Malcolm noted, turning to the large, bloodied stone that lay discarded in a corner of the room. “If the killer had a clear head, he would have gotten rid of the murder weapon. He smashed it, hard, catching the victim by surprise, and kept going until he was dead. He _needed_ him dead, to do all of this. There are herbs on the body…”

Gil waited as his words trailed off and he circled the body, bending at awkward angles to take in the victim’s head, limbs, chest, clothing, and the surrounding area. After a moment, he prompted, “Bright?”

Before Malcolm could answer, one of Edrisa’s colleagues called out, “Look at this.” Everyone turned, then looked at each other, surprised. “What the hell is this supposed to be?”

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “Ouija board.” He turned back to Gil. “He’s delusional.”

“That wasn’t obvious to you?” JT muttered.

Malcolm didn’t seem to hear the comment; rather, he took the board from the coroner with gloved hands and held it to the light, his smile spreading the more he took it in.

“Is this a ghost thing?” Dani guessed. “Prank gone wrong?”

“Not just ghosts, and not a prank,” Malcolm murmured, setting the board down. He looked up at her with excited eyes. “I think our killer was summoning demons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I already have two multi-chapter fics I could work on? Yes. But did I get a random idea that I thought was cool and chose to work instead? Also yes. Is this an unorganized, un-thought-out story sparked by both procrastination and a single (1) article I read on a late night? Most definitely. But will I figure it out eventually? I hope so.


	2. Chapter 2

Northeastern Animal Hospital was a quiet place, as was the rest of Connecticut. It didn’t matter where you were from; what you did; who you were. All that mattered was that you were willing to be a part of something bigger than yourself and smaller than the business next door, and disappearing in this place was even easier to do when no one—including yourself—was looking for you.

But now, as Sophie slammed the phone down on its receiver, she was conflicted. Malcolm’s question hung heavy in her mind, and she didn’t know whether or not she had given the right answer—or whether she could have the right answer. Twenty-plus years of forgetting your past takes a toll, and the memories were so blurry on their own that the camping trip was all a smear except for the escape.

Was she in the woods? She remembered a car, ropes, a rug. Martin’s face, and Malcolm’s too—but that was before, from the trunk. Sophie saw his face a grand total of three times, all with less and less murkiness in his eyes as his father’s drugs were wearing off.

Was there a fourth time? If not, who was the person Malcolm had called her about?

In the present, her coworker was confused. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Sophie replied softly, without looking up from the phone, “everything’s fine.”

But was it?

If everything was truly fine, Sophie would have almost died at Malcolm’s hand—or she would not have. Whatever had happened did not change anything for her, personally. But if the girl in the woods wasn’t her, somewhere out there, some girl no one knew of might have been killed.

Maybe Sophie wasn’t the only one on the camping trip.

Maybe she could have saved someone.

She wasn’t unfamiliar with paperwork; sifting through anything and everything given, stolen, or discovered, then picking out the important pieces and clicking together the truth. She could do that research easily; she could figure it out, but she had also spent so long disappearing that she wasn’t sure what she wanted to find.

Maybe the past was best left untouched—Sophie saw firsthand how it affected Malcolm—but then again, Malcolm was probably torturing himself trying to remember. And from the moment they re-introduced themselves, Sophie had seen how much burden he carried.

Was it worth the damage it would do to herself, to others, if she had the ability to make Malcolm’s struggle a little easier? Did he even deserve that?

Only one way to find out.

Sophie excused herself from the front desk and slipped into the back room, then up the stairs, to where she lived. There were windows here, with fresh air filling a cozy space that had been fashioned out of her new life—but there was also a small wooden jewelry box underneath one of the floorboards; the last bits of not just her past, but _their_ past.

Someone out there needed the truth. Sophie knew what that felt like. What would the girl in the box have done—how would she have felt—if she knew someone out there was trying to help, no matter how little they would ultimately achieve?

But the thing was, Sophie _did_ know. Because it happened.

Maybe it was time to return the favor.

With that thought in mind, Sophie slipped the top off the box with shaky hands and dove into the papers without giving herself time to hesitate.

* * *

“Quentin Norberg died from blunt force trauma to the back of the head,” Edrisa announced, as Malcolm and the others pushed open the doors of the M.E. office. “The laceration to his palm was made with a sharp object antemortem—small knife, probably—which was not found on the scene, but the murder weapon was—that large rock.”

“So the wound was planned,” Malcolm concurred, “but the kill was not.”

Gil stroked his beard. “Do you think the palm was part of the ritual?”

“Maybe,” Malcolm agreed. “If our killer was summoning demons, he may have believed a blood sacrifice would coax them out better.”

“Guess Norberg ended up giving more than he bargained for,” Dani remarked.

“I don’t think that was part of it,” Malcolm countered, at the same time Edrisa snickered, “If you call _that_ a sacrifice.” They looked at each other, smiled, then turned back to Gil and spoke over each other, trying to explain.

Gil raised his hand and pointed it at Edrisa.

With a grin, she explained, “Like Bright said, the kill was really messy. He struggled, there are defensive wounds, and it doesn’t look like any sacrifice I’ve read. The only other offering our killer made to the demons was—”

She started to move towards the counter, and JT, guessing where things were headed, interrupted, “I think we can guess.”

“Was this post or antemortem?” Dani asked, equally tense.

“Post,” Edrisa answered.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “Sexual rage and overkill speaks to a crime of passion,” he remarked. “The killer and the victim must have known each other.”

“What if Norberg was a surrogate?” Gil ventured.

Malcolm shook his head. “There are no drugs in his system and the cut on his palm is clean,” he pointed out. “Norberg did that willingly, so that shows trust. He was part of the ritual—until the ritual went sideways.” He nodded to himself. “I’ll work up a pro—”

His words were cut off by his phone, buzzing shrilly in his pocket. Normally, Malcolm would cancel the call before even checking to see who it was, but now, his dream drifted to the front of his thoughts.

_Claremont Psychiatric Hospital._

His thumb lingered over the answer button.

_—where are we going—stay quiet—she’s so quiet, too—_

“Bright?”

_—firm grip, like John taught you—just the two of us—the ground is soft—_

“Earth to Bright. Hello?”

_—but the knife is cold and hard impersonal—don’t make it personal—it’s not impersonal—_

Someone slapped him.

Malcolm blinked a couple times to find that his phone had gone silent, and that Dani and JT weren’t in the room anymore. Instead, Edrisa was staring at him, looking slightly sheepish as she held her hand to her chest, and Gil’s expression was one of concern.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Where’s Dani and JT?” Malcolm murmured.

“Dani’s getting background on Norberg,” Gil explained, carefully, like he had told him before, “and JT’s working on tracing the Ouija board and the paint.” He ran his tongue over his lips, eyebrows still pinched. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Malcolm replied lightly, tucking his phone into his pocket.

Gil didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “Write that profile.” After a moment, he added, “If you’re going to be spacing out during this case—”

“I’m not,” Malcolm assured him. “I can focus.”

“Promise? You sure?”

“Yes. Absolutely…”

Gil nodded again before leaving the office. Soon after, Edrisa left as well, a stack of files in her arms. Malcolm watched them both go before turning back down to his phone, swiping away the voicemail that appeared from Claremont with a heavy sigh.

“...One hundred percent.”


	3. Chapter 3

“JT, Dani, head back to the precinct,” Gil directed. “I want one of you to get locations of origin for the candles, paint, Ouija board—everything. The other one, I need background on Norberg. Bright,” he added, turning to their profiler, “conference room is empty; go do your thing.”

But Malcolm didn’t respond. He simply stared out at the wall, looking unreasonably scared as he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head back and forth. Gil reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Bright?” Nothing. “Earth to Bright. Hello?”

“Maybe it’s an unplug-replug kind of problem,” JT suggested.

Gil wasn’t amused. “I got this,” he announced, pointing to the door without taking his eyes off Malcolm. “Go get it done, you two.”

With a confused look exchanged, Dani and JT exited the M.E. office. Once the doors swung closed, Dani offered, “I’ll do background?”

“Works for me,” JT agreed with a nod. “I’ll hit up the lab; check some craft stores. Update me.”

Dani nodded, waving her phone to show she would, then pushed through the main door and got into her car. It was a short drive back to the precinct, where she made work of her computer first.

_Quentin Norberg..._ there wasn’t much on the guy... _Quentin Norberg occupation/company..._ looks like he had an Instagram account, was that him in the profile picture? Yes, it was...no family photos that Dani could see, but a wife popped up every so often, and one man kept reappearing; did he have an Instagram? No, but there was a business website... _Michael Fawkes_...private investigator, it seemed, with a specialty in... _t_ _he unexplainable, the supernatural, the things that go bump in the night...95% success!_...so, paranormal investigator, then...a photo, a phone number, a bad Yelp review, a divorce, a lawsuit? Interesting...he did look strong enough to bludgeon Norberg, it seemed, maybe they should keep an eye out and track him down…

Other than Fawkes and the lack of family, there was nothing sketchy about Norberg. The only thing on his criminal record was a night in jail for vandalism at age 19. Dani turned off the computer after more digging and called Gil.

_“Hey, Dani. You got anything?”_

“Michael Fawkes shows up a lot in Norberg’s social media,” Dani said. “He’s some sort of paranormal investigator, but his business looks like a con. I don’t see any sort of family besides a wife, but it looks like she left him about a few months ago.”

_“Nice work. I’m almost at the precinct; let’s see if Fawkes fits his profile.”_

* * *

Deeper and deeper she went; further through the photos; under the newspaper clippings; past the long-repressed memories—and Sophie still could not find anything that told her about her time spent in the cabin basement.

Maybe there was another girl, after all—but now, the questions that remained were these: why wasn’t anyone else in the basement with Sophie? If there were two women on the camping trip, why did only one come back from it? And why did Malcolm only remember _her_ until now?

* * *

Malcolm was the only one waiting when Gil entered the conference room. He seemed lost in thought, mumbling to himself as he bent over his file; Gil set Edrisa’s report on the table and took a seat, tapping his fingertips together.

“There’s something going on,” he observed, and Malcolm shot up as if he hadn’t noticed his presence. “This about your father?”

“I…” Malcolm sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It might not even be real.”

His hands were trembling. Gil reached out and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze as he took a chance and asked, “Well, what happened?”

Before Malcolm could answer, however, Dani and JT entered the room, and he stood up with a flourish, holding his index finger up to silence both their opening mouths _—profile first._ With a slight glower, the two nodded, and he clapped his hands together, looking the happiest Gil had seen him all day.

“Your killer is living in a delusion,” he began. “He carried out a ritual that our victim willingly participated in—this is called a _folie à deux;_ a shared psychosis between two people. The Ouija board, the candles, the paint, the herbs—all that staging was planned.”

“Norberg’s the one who bought the paint,” JT piped up, leaning against the wall. “Security footage and receipts tell us he got it a few weeks ago. On the other hand, the spooky guy I spoke to about the Ouija board says it looked like an heirloom. It’s too old to know for sure where it came from.”

Malcolm nodded. “Our killer is also a loner,” he continued. “He’s dominant, of average intelligence, and probably has some sort of history of mental illness: schizophrenia, paranoia, delusions, something along those lines. He probably drives some sort of large truck to transport the materials and Norberg—probably a pickup. Something else that’s very important for you to know is he is incredibly scared.”

This caught the others off guard a little. “Hold up,” JT said, voicing their thoughts and holding up one of the crime scene photos, “you’re saying _this..._ is _fear?”_

“I am,” Malcolm agreed, his eyes twinkling as if he had been expecting this controversy. “The disorganized kill in such an organized environment tells me that the kill is opportunistic, which means something in the ritual didn’t happen the way the killer expected. Driven by his delusions, he may have believed Norberg to be possessed, some kind of demon—the possibilities are endless. In his mind, killing him was a necessary evil.”

“So why not confess to it?” Dani asked.

Malcolm only shrugged. “What can the police do against a supernatural force?”

He seemed done with the profile after that, and Gil gave a resolute nod. “I got a warrant being pulled for Fawkes,” he informed them. “Beat cops called and said the craft store on 9th saw him purchasing candles a few days before the murder.”

The team nodded, gathering their things, and before Malcolm could leave the room, Gil cut him off with a gentle hand on his chest.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he pressed. “We’re about to go interview what could be a delusional killer, and you’re probably our best man to do it.”

“Gil,” Malcolm reassured him, taking his hand off his chest, “I’m fine. Nothing’s going to happen.”

After a moment, Gil let him go, despite everything that was telling him to keep Malcolm at the precinct until he cleared his head—despite every instinct screaming at him that something was going to go wrong.

And something did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there a craft store on 9th in nyc? Is there a 9th street? Are there craft stores? I don’t know for sure, but for the sake of my lazy research, now there are. 😂


	4. Chapter 4

“Mr. Michael Fawkes?” Gil called, knocking on the door of Fawkes’s trailer and taking a few steps back. Next to him, Malcolm peered through the window, trying to gauge what sort of a person Fawkes was by his home. The lights were on.

Or they were, until someone inside the house turned them off.

Gil rested his hand over his holster. “Mr. Fawkes, we have a warrant,” he said loudly. “Open the door so we can talk.”

Through the window, Malcolm saw an open back door. Without waiting for Gil to give any sort of signal, he skirted the trailer and started to move towards the back, cringing at the way the crunching gravel announced his presence to everything within five meters of him.

A door swung open, then clicked shut. Malcolm crept forward.

A stick snapped under his foot.

_Sh, sh, do you hear that?_

Malcolm froze.

_No. What is it?_

Beside him, someone’s boots crunched the gravel, making pebbles scatter across the ground, but Malcolm couldn’t see who was running. Was _he_ running? His feet were planted into the earth; the sharp crack rang in his ears like a tuning fork.

_That’s the sound of the earth. Before us. After us._

_But I can’t hear anything._

_I know._

Something dark swam in his peripheral vision, coming closer until a sudden pain erupted in the side of Malcolm’s face, bringing him back to the present a moment before the earth gave way and he hit the ground with more voices flooding his ears; pulsing with each heartbeat, whispering through each ragged inhale of his as he tried to suck in a breath.

_Stop crying. Focus on the sounds. Focus on the air and the water. Nature doesn’t care who lives or who dies. All that matters—all that_ really _matters—is balance._

_Is she…?_

_Dead? Not yet._

The footsteps receded—not that Malcolm could really hear it. He curled deeper into himself, trying to take in a deep breath and sending a rush of blood into his mouth instead. He choked on it, spat it out, wrapped his arms around his knees.

_This is how it goes, Malcolm. Sometimes people die._

The memory started to dissolve. There were hands on his shoulder, flipping him onto his back.

_She shouldn’t have to die._

“Bright?”

_Well, sometimes, that’s how it goes, too._

“Bright, can you hear me?”

Malcolm blinked, giving a harsh retch to clear the blood from his throat. Next to him, Gil was kneeling in the gravel, one hand on his radio, the other rubbing circles into Malcolm’s shoulder.

There was no sign of their suspect.

“Where’s Fawkes?” Malcolm rasped, pushing himself up and dragging his forearm over his nose.

“He’s gone,” Gil replied carefully, keeping his grip. “Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?”

Malcolm shook his head. “No, I just—” He thought for a moment. “Fell.” When Gil only raised his eyebrows, he admitted, “I think I remembered something. From the camping trip.”

“I thought you figured it out.”

“I thought so, too.”

Gil closed his eyes, massaging the spot where his Bright-induced headaches usually began between. “Bright, you shouldn’t be working this,” he sighed.

Malcolm shook his head vehemently. “We have to find Fawkes first!” he insisted. “Gil, seriously, I’m fine. And,” he added, “without that chase, I never would have learned something new. My father—”

“Your _father_ should not be a part of this case,” Gil interrupted, raising a hand to quiet him. “Maybe if you had stayed back at the precinct, your nose would be attached to your face correctly.”

Malcolm winced, brushing the sore spot on his face. “You have a point. But—”

“This isn’t a debate!” Gil exclaimed, getting to his feet. He put his hands on his hips. “Either you sort out this camping trip now, put it in the back of your mind, or get off the case so you can deal with it properly.” Feeling slightly guilty, he added, “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

The pleading look in his eyes made Malcolm soften a little. “Fine,” he relented, pushing himself up to a standing position. “I’m going to Claremont.”

“You think he’s going to give you information on a silver platter?” Gil scoffed.

Malcolm shrugged. “He’s going to want something from it. Whatever it is, though, I think I can handle it.”

“You sure?”

“Of course,” Malcolm insisted cheerily, turning to walk back to the car. Over his shoulder, he added, “Give me a ride?”

Gil exhaled harshly, but slid into the front seat anyway.

* * *

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Sophie felt useless. Dr. Whitly was good—too good—because there was no paper evidence of the camping trip. Maybe Malcolm had something that could help him, but at this point, all Sophie was doing was digging up memories she had preferred to stay hidden. Frustrated, she flipped the box over, sending papers and photos sliding across the floor, then groaned into her hands.

She was done with this. She was _done_ with this. Why did she feel the need to find this out?

Weakly, Sophie recognized that all these newspapers and records were pointless; just beating around the bush. She knew how to get the answer—she knew _who_ had the answer.

Anger was her motivation; Sophie snatched her phone off the ground and called Malcolm, speaking before he could work out a greeting. “You need to speak to your father about this.”

There was a moment of silence before Malcolm admitted, quietly, _“I had that exact idea.”_

Sophie’s blood ran cold. “You’re there?” she whispered.

_“Who’s that?”_ someone asked, then, with a breathy exhale, _“Ohhh. It’s her,_ _isn’t it?”_

Him.

_Him._

Before Sophie had time to speak, Malcolm disconnected the phone call.


	5. Chapter 5

There was something different about Malcolm when he walked into the cell—nothing relatively bad; in fact, Martin thought he looked, if anything, devious. As much as the former liked to complain about it, this was not a new expression in itself. What was new was the fact that he seemed content as well, even—dare he say—happy.

“Well,” Martin remarked, raising his eyebrows, “someone’s looking _fraudulent_ this evening.” A grin spread across his face. “What sort of mischief have you gotten yourself into?”

Malcolm smiled as well, but there was a slightly malicious gleam in his eye that only appeared once in a blue moon. “I’ve been...remembering things,” he explained, clasping his hands behind his back and starting to pace. “You know, just...looking fondly back on my childhood.”

Martin’s leer simmered down as he fell as best into step as he could, eyes tracking up and down his son. “Such good times,” he agreed carefully, keeping his voice light.

“Very,” Malcolm replied, with just as much terseness. “Movie nights...school plays…” He stopped, turning to face Martin. “Family outings.”

Martin’s smile dropped completely, and he couldn’t stifle a groan. “Not the camping trip _again.”_

“I wouldn’t be talking about it if you had given me everything. Who was she?”

Martin slumped his shoulders, plopping down at his desk with an elongated sigh. “I already told you and your little girlfriend: her name was Sophie Sanders and I let her go. How long are we going to do this?” He gave an exaggerated frown and touched his chest in mock hurt. “Do you really believe I am _that_ heartless? To harm an _innocent_ woman for _no good reason?”_

“Yes,” Malcolm deadpanned.

Martin kicked desolately at the rug. “I thought teenage rebellions lasted months, not decades.”

He could almost see Malcolm rolling his eyes behind his back. “I’m not here to talk about Sophie Sanders—I solved her case.”

“So what brings you to the man cave?”

As if on cue, Malcolm’s phone buzzed in his pocket—although, it wasn’t the cue Malcolm himself seemed to hope for. Without taking his eyes away from Martin, he put the phone to his ear and listened, then flinched slightly as a woman shouted something at him over the phone.

“Late for curfew?” Martin muttered.

“I had that exact idea,” Malcolm told the phone, his voice tight.

Martin sat up in his seat abruptly, starting to connect the dots. He turned around in his chair, the woman’s voice playing in his mind; that vague, familiar cadence...he knew that. And given the topic of discussion at hand…

“Oh,” he breathed, the smile returning, _“Oh._ It’s her, isn’t it?”

Malcolm fumbled to end the call and shoved the phone in his pocket, but it was too late; Martin had everything he needed. The sliver of control his son previously held had dissolved, and it filled Martin with cool, pleasurable—and above all, familiar—relief.

Before he could take full control, Malcolm jammed an accusatory finger in his direction. “This isn’t about her,” he stated firmly.

Martin shrugged, a twinkle in his eye. “What is it they say about coincidences?”

 _“Nothing._ I need information.”

“And I could give you that information,” Martin simpered, _“buuuuut_ I think I’m going to have to ask for something in return. That’s how healthy relationships work, after all.”

Malcolm stared at the ceiling as if trying to will it to fall down and crush both of them. “What is it? More visits? More phone calls?”

“I want to talk to her.”

_“No,”_ Malcolm snapped, without wasting a beat. His eyes were cold. “Absolutely not. I am _not_ going to let you—”

“Solve your cold case?” Martin interrupted, clasping his hands. Patience. “Miss Sophie was quite an active part of our little camping trip, as you remember—and it seems as if you’ve already employed her help.”

“You were there, too. Surely you can recall it yourself, Dr. Whitly?”

_Dr. Whitly_ again. “There are moments that have slipped my mind,” Martin murmured lowly. “Which is why I believe a visual…” He searched around for the right word to use. _“Aid_ …may assist in recollecting.”

Malcolm smiled slightly. “You were the one who told me about serial killers reliving their crimes,” he pointed out, “and that iPod playlist hasn’t gone unnoticed by Mr. David. I think I can guess what will happen if I bring Sophie in here.”

Mr. David; that traitor. Martin glared at him before muttering through gritted teeth, “A man’s not allowed to listen to music?”

“A _convicted serial killer_ isn’t allowed to see his victims.”

“That’s not a real law. And she’s not even one of my real victims!”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, starting to retract into himself. Martin was familiar with this: he was waiting for his subject to start talking; to get angry and say something he’d regret.

Better not give him the satisfaction. Martin changed the subject. “You’ve got some bruising on your face,” he noted. “Rough case?”

“A delusional killer murdered a man after they were both summoning demons,” Malcolm replied smoothly, as if they were discussing the weather. Who was talking now? “We had a suspect, but he got away before we had the chance to question him.”

“Interesting,” Martin murmured, trying to pry the camping trip from both their minds. “Your victim participated in the ritual? If he was complicit, what got him killed?”

“Blunt force trauma. Murder rock was on the scene. I think something went wrong, the killer lashed out, then fled.”

“Or,” Martin added, “the second guy isn’t your killer.

This made Malcolm pause. “What do you mean?”

“For one thing, you don’t know how many people were in the ritual,” Martin explained, “and another potential point…” He raised his eyebrow, mischief playing at the corners of his lips. “Perhaps the ritual worked.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Seriously? They were using a Ouija board and a red pentagram. Candles. Blood sacrifice from the victim’s palms.”

“None of your killer’s blood, remember that,” Martin piped up.

“This wasn’t supernatural. Ghosts and demons don’t exist.”

“Hm, I once had a patient who believed he was being possessed by a friendly poltergeist named Polly Talack,” Martin reminisced. “Just because something isn’t real to you doesn’t mean someone else doesn’t think so.” He started moving again, pacing his cell with his index finger in the air and his gaze to the ceiling as if he were lecturing a classroom. “As you like to say, my boy, it only has to make sense to the killer.”

“This isn’t just Casper. I’m pretty sure he thought our victim was being possessed by a demon.”

“No, no, you’re mistaken. Perhaps the _killer_ is the one being possessed.”

Malcolm thought for a moment, the words sinking in. Before he could continue, however, his phone buzzed again, inside his pocket.

“Another old friend?” Martin asked.

Malcolm had the sense to move away from him as he answered the call. “I’m on my way,” he told the phone, “wait for me. Yeah...I have some new developments.”

Martin scowled. “He means _we_ made developments!” he called, leaning forward until his tether pulled taut. “Teamwork makes the dream work, Malcolm! Give credit where it’s due!”

Malcolm ignored him and walked straight out the door.

* * *

Fawkes pulled his car up to a gas station, sticking the pump in and loading it with fuel before walking leisurely over to the small convenience store to collect a lottery ticket and a bottle of Sprite. He watched the news as he paid, giving the cashier an absent wave before returning to his car.

The gas tank filled and he swiped one of his numerous credit cards in the slot, frowning when it was denied. That happened sometimes, with laundered money. He tried again and it worked; the receipt slid out and he moved back into his car. 

A police car rolled into the station in front of him.

Dammit. He had to be smooth about this.

Fawkes stayed where he was at first, and to his surprise, the cop in the front seat left the car and walked into the convenience store. Fawkes watched her go, a welcome pump of adrenaline surging through him; the familiar feeling of narrowly escaping—

“Michael Fawkes?”

Fawkes closed his eyes and rested his head on the steering wheel.

Apparently, there was a second cop in the passenger seat.

The cop placed his badge on the window, one hand by his holster. “You have a minute?” he asked. “Slowly,” he added, when Fawkes stormed out of the car.

“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?” he grumbled.

The cop shrugged. “That’s what happens when you run. Let’s go.”

“If you really want to know,” Fawkes muttered, as he was nudged into the back seat, “I think he deserved what he got.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot woot! Another chapter!
> 
> I really love writing Martin xD


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